Brûlant
by Expecto-Prongs
Summary: A dark Will thirsts for blood and hunts in the night, all the while seeking out the guidance of the monster who had manipulated him for so long. This is an AU. It takes place in the middle of season 1.


**Well this is pretty interesting. I wrote this over the course of a year and my writing style changes as the story progresses. This remains one of my proudest pieces. I wrote it around a year ago.**

 **I would warn for gore/violence, but if you watch Hannibal it shouldn't be much of a problem. There is slash at the end, but it really only amounts to a kiss. Albeit, a bloody one.**

i.

In the end, it took a lot more than just petty mind games to push Will over the edge.

It took isolation, time to just stare at his own blood trickling from his chest down his bare stomach and onto the floor. Observing, touching, lightly dragging his fingers through it, after all, countless hours alone in a bare, locked room does strange things to a man.

The media had judged him harshly, prior to his abrupt incarceration. In a sense, Freddie's meddling and prodding into his less than desirable lifestyle crucified him. He was a sensation, some sick twisted specimen laid bare for public consumption, to be looked at and sneered at and maybe even feared, just a little. But not all eyes belong to the common masses. Some have very insidious intent. When Will eventually became the target of the latest serial sicko, the man knew too much about him to be normal, to be an accident.

It wasn't safe. Then again, when had anything in Will's life been particularly safe or sane?

He came to, strapped to a table. It was safe to say that he was having a difficult time differentiating between the other victim's ordeal and his own. Was this even real? Or was he just seeing what someone else had seen before him?

"Will Graham." The man spoke directly to him, as if he knew that his captive wasn't quite sure of who he was. "It is an honor."

Will couldn't say anything. Not with the tape over his mouth. But he did manage to breathe in and out of his nose harshly, clearly signifying his distress. He could feel his hair plastered to his forehead, sweat trickling down the side of his face and sparkling in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Through the glare of the overhead lights, the silhouette of his captor loomed menacingly over him. Tall, thin, boney. A little bit mad, but maybe just a little too sane as well.

"I don't usually pick up celebrities," he said conversationally, turning his back to Will. "But you're _different,_ aren't you? I have something special in mind for you." The man faced his way again, and Will noted with a lurch in his stomach that he held a knife in his hand.

He was going to die.

Looking at it objectively, Will thought as his breathing slowed slightly, he wasn't really afraid of death. He dealt with it on a daily basis. One might say that he knew it intimately. He wasn't even afraid of the pain associated with it. Not too much, anyways. What he found truly distasteful was the thought of Jack's mouth setting in a straight line, teeth pressing up against his lips like when the interns burn the coffee. Or Freddie's thinly disguised glee as she worms herself in among the press, snapping pictures of his likely disfigured corpse. Alana's meaningful tears, and his dogs going unloved, uncared for. Hannibal's face, set in stone, unreadable.

"You're going to be a masterpiece when I'm finished with you," the man breathed, sliding close to Will's prone form and adeptly slicing off his shirt, the one barrier left between him and the pain he knew was coming.

He brought his hand to the side of Will's face and tugged gently at the tape. The adhesive clung possessively to his skin, lingering even as the tape was removed. He licked his chapped lips once, twice, and then was still. He did not speak. The jaded man just stared at his captor, willing him to reveal his plan, his design.

"Who are you?" The question came from the captor, and Will knew that he was meant to answer it. How was he to respond, was the tricky part.

"Will Graham," he whispered, breath hitching minutely. Will's head jerked to the side and his jaw ached. He realized belatedly that the man had backhanded him, the first show of violence since he had woken up. The whole side of his face smarted, the tell tale ache of a bruise building and stretching across his skin.

"Who are you really?" The man, Will could tell, was giving him time to answer. As much time as he needed. This was part of the ritual, part of the design. The man's face was cast in sharp relief by the light; one half shadowed and the other gaunt. He had the sunken cheeks of a long time smoker, but not the smell of one. The eyes of an insomniac but none of the twitches. The sharp cheekbones of aristocracy but none of the stuffiness of it. Mid thirties, brown hair, dark eyes, barely there stubble and defining eyebrows.

"Think," he growled, grabbing Will's jaw so tightly that his fingernails cut into the fragile skin there. "Reach into yourself, find the truth."

 _The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else._

"I- I don't know," Will admitted, feeling Hannibal's words linger in his thoughts, festering there like a diseased wound.

"You're an after image, a ghost, a slave to your empathy, an empty shell. You're name is Will Graham but you've got every killer you've ever met churning in _here_ ," the man jabbed quickly at his chest where his heart was straining against his ribs. "There's no room for you when there's a hundred other people clanging around."

Will's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "And I suppose you'll be the one to 'fix' me then? Where everyone else has failed?" His muscles were taut beneath his bonds, ready to snap.

"Well, putting it simply, yes," the man smiled benevolently. "I'm a specialist, you see. I have it all up here, in my head. I'll burn you down, and from your ashes, you _will_ be reborn."

"You're insane," the empath spat. He was snarling, straining, struggling. He didn't want to be remade. Not like this.

Despite Will's struggles, the man just smirked and shrugged.

"Maybe. Doesn't mean I'm not right though." The man replaced the tape to its former position on Will's face. "You'll see once I snip away all those marionette strings. You'll thank me."

The pain was sudden, sharp, succinct, and absolute. The knife, formerly forgotten but now back in the forefront of the bound man's attention, cut cleanly through his bared chest. Neat, pen like strokes. Deep enough to scar, yet not so deep as to cause him to bleed out.

The man continued his work silently, ignoring Will's frantic jerking and yowling behind the tape. The most he reacted to his struggling was to place a restraining hand on his shoulder.

A swirling, cascading character began on Will's left shoulder and chest area, sweeping deftly across his clavicle.

On his right side, a thickly carved basic symbol; a crude combination of lines and curves that aligned parallel with his ribs and curved perfectly with where his neck and shoulder sloped into his arm.

Just below the sternum, the last symbol was carved with quick, precise strokes. A horizontal line with two twin peaks rising out of it. Lines as straight as though using a ruler, impeccably even as though the man was made of stone. Unyielding.

By the time the man stepped back, Will had turned his head away in order to hide the incriminating tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked, willing the wetness to dry out before the man could take stock of his weakness.

"This is going to hurt." Out of the corner of his eye, Will could see that the wraith like man had a fist full of white powder in his grasp. He knew where this was going.

"Why are you doing this," he pleaded against the tape. The words came out muffled and bounced dully off the walls.

"It is the only way to evict the other occupants in your head. If there was another way..." he trailed off, and then sighed. "Well, no use thinking like that."

Tears tread down his flushed face, the water collecting at the edge of the tape and evaporating. His body was twitching, jerking away from the prospect of getting salt literally rubbed into his wounds.

The man didn't let him wallow in the prospect of it for very long. As soon as the innocuous mineral reached his injuries, all he knew was pain. It was the only thing he could think of. He arched off the table and sobbed, choking on his own swollen misery, but the man didn't stop.

He felt carved out, empty, and then filled with all encompassing agony. He felt like he was burning alive.

Will absently felt a hand card through his damp brown curls.

Then, nothing.

0O0

Will woke up to various body parts screaming at him, each demanding his attention. He was sprawled out on the hard concrete of the floor. He slowly sat up, stretching the wounds on his chest and causing them to bleed with renewed vigor. No one was there to hear him scream.

The next time he attempted to move, he commanded his muscles to move gently, in tiny increments. He pushed his back up against the wall, letting the solid fixture support him through his exhaustion. Even moving mere feet was like running a marathon. He must have lost a lot of blood before he had regained consciousness.

He took stock of his situation. He was alone, in a ten by ten room. Concrete floors. No windows. Beige walls. One door, probably locked. Even if it wasn't, he doubted he would have the strength to reach it anyhow. His head fell back in defeat, thudding against the wall. There was no telling how long it would take for anyone to come for him, if they would at all. He idly thought of Alana, Jack, even Hannibal. But as time passed ever slowly in its unstoppable parade towards oblivion, he thought less and less about his would be rescuers and more about himself.

As ridiculous as it sounded, he was bored. Even the pain was an unchanging and constant throb in his chest. He wasn't going to start talking to himself, because he wasn't _that_ far gone, but his options to stave off the creeping ennui were limited in his confinement. Just him and the cavern that used to be his soul.

His fingers tapped out a syncopated rhythm on his stomach, his shirt still absent from his earlier encounter. Hours passed, and his tapping evolved into tracing. And then, well, he didn't register when it started, but he was dragging his fingers through the stream of blood on his chest. He left little trails in the pool of red, thin paths through the viscous liquid that just moments prior served as his life force and was now reduced to a lonely distraction.

It didn't take too long for him to tentatively bring his hand from his wounded chest, slicked by blood, up to his mouth. The taste was nothing special, just copper and salt, but it was grounding in some strange sense. The red of it was so vivid in comparison to the dull colors of the world surrounding it. The walls were beige, his skin was pale, his jeans were faded and dirty. Only the red of the blood seemed real in this forced isolation.

Will knew that he was skirting into dangerous territory as he slowly took his hand back out of his mouth, dragging his teeth along the skin lightly. He knew from personal experience that this was how many killers felt, that this is something that drove them to slit throats and carve flesh. Nothing in the world seemed real but the technicolor red of another's blood, the shuddering gasp of a human drawing its last breath.

Before he could think on it further, he came to the realization that the origin of his thoughts ran deep in his own veins, entrenched in the black shuddering chasm of what he had lost somewhere along the road of his captivity. It throbbed with each beat of his heart. His mind was blissfully blank, only he resided there. For once, no one else tainted his thought processes. There was nobody else's ulterior motives, there was no stag stalking his every move. All thoughts were his own. His captor had made sure of it.

His breath quickened. This was the first time he had truly been himself, just himself, in quite some time.

There was no room for denial here, in Hell. He would either have to face his demons, or die as a fragment of a man who never really existed. He had to make himself real.

"I liked killing Hobbs," he whispered to himself, voice rasping with just a hint of the remnants of his earlier screams. "I did."

The sentiment was swallowed by the stifling silence of the room, leaving Will to wonder if he had said it at all.

"Would you do it again?" a voice came from his left. Will wrenched his head towards the sound and regretted it as soon as he did.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs, teeth bared in a half sneer half smirk, cocked his head at Will's horrified expression.

"Oh come on, no need to be like that. We've been sharing your noggin for months now," he huffed, closing his death fogged eyes and leaning back against the wall. Even post mortem, his wounds still bled sluggishly.

"You're not _real,_ " Will hissed, weakly pushing himself further into the wall.

"I'm real to you," he reasoned. "And in the end, isn't that all that matters?"

"No… yes? I don't know!" Will dragged his hands over his face and tugged on his hair. "I don't know anything anymore!" His voice broke at the end, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He was trapped in a room, half dead, talking to a hallucination, and fighting the urge to put his bloody hand back in his mouth.

"Why are you so afraid of me? I'm dead. Dead men don't tell lies, they don't hurt anyone," he whispered, oozing sincerity. "Why are you always so opposed to my presence?"

"Because me seeing you just proves that I'm crazy!" Will howled, nearing hysteria. "Sane people don't hallucinate people-" he stuttered, but continued, "people they _killed._ "

"I disagree. I think it shows character depth."

"Is that so," Will sneered, turning away abruptly. "Why should I listen to you anyway?" he said the last bit towards the wall, willing the man to not answer him. Today was not his lucky day.

"Because I'm you."

The veracity of the sentiment rang through his head, echoing against his fevered, aching thoughts.

"Ever since you shot me, a bit of me lived on in you. You and I, we share a lot of the same motivations."

"I'm not a killer," Will ground out.

"And yet, you liked killing me."

Will wasn't fooling anyone when he shook his head desperately. Fractures were forming in what he had thought himself to be.

"I liked serving justice. I liked saving Abigail. I liked making sure you would never hurt anyone again."

"You could have done that without killing me." Will flinched. The figment of Hobbs grinned. "You could have shot me in the knee. You could have incapacitated me in any other way. And yet, you shot me nine times. A bit overkill, don't you think?"

"Stop!" Will was covering his ears, steadfastly ignoring the tugging on his barely scabbed over wounds. The skin split once again, and caused hot blood to well up and trickle over his doodles from earlier.

"I'll ask again," Hobbs crooned, leaning over and gripping Will's shoulder. It felt real. Will could feel a bruise well up where the specter clenched his skin. He turned reluctantly towards the man who tortured him with his continued persistence.

"What," his voice quavered, as soft as Hobbs' own, almost as if he thought that if he spoke louder, he would break into a thousand pieces.

"Would you do it again?"

The question hung in the air.

"Yes," Will whispered, lips forming around the affirmation almost without his consent. Hobbs smiled at him, genuine, all traces of malcontent gone from his countenance.

"There we go," he said, letting go of Will. "That wasn't so hard."

Will's resulting nervous laugh was hysterical, jagged. His wounds burned. The pain he felt made him more real than he had been in many years. Possibly ever.

0O0

Jack Crawford had tagged many hazards along with the name Will Graham. Unstable, Fragile, even Potentially Dangerous. But Victim, that was never one of them.

The steel door had a carving on it. That was how they knew they were on the right track. A circle, with a line bisecting it horizontally. It had all the signs of the Alchemy Assassin (rubbish name, the man wasn't an assassin. He was a killer, clear and simple. But the media loved their alliteration, even sparing accuracy to buy themselves a meager serving of poetic gore).

Jack and his swarm of FBI cronies kicked in the door. Will Graham had never looked so fragile and deranged as he did in that moment, covered in his own blood and smiling at something that wasn't there.

ii.

Will Graham was very still in the sea of sterilized whites. He had bags of blood floating above his head, strapped into his veins, slowly kickstarting him to life.

The predator sat in the adjacent chair, keeping up a silent vigil of his intended prey. Will's charts lay open next to him. His precious Will had been branded by some other man. Three symbols were carved into his chest. Owned by some other force, tainted. Hannibal had wanted the honor for himself, but the fight for Will Graham wasn't over yet. He still had time to make his mark on the malleable consultant.

As soon as he had seen the pictures, he had known exactly what they were. Old alchemy symbols, used in what passed for modern science and medicine during the 18th century. A bit outdated, but alarmingly effective. At least in Will's case they had been.

On his left shoulder, purification. On his right, death. And on his sternum, binding the triumvirate together, fire. In any other case, he would have been fascinated. But now, he was just frustrated. Defeat was a foreign and bitter taste in his mouth, and he didn't enjoy its presence in his machinations.

While the empath was being stitched back together by the doctors, the encephalitis that Hannibal had been trying to cultivate in secret had been discovered. Treated. Eradicated. The only fever lingering on Will's waxy skin was of his own body's volition.

He had lost an alarming amount of blood, and according to the records, had suffered insurmountable agony by having salt rubbed into the wounds.

Salt. Used for purification and renewal.

He also had mild abrasions on his forearms, mouth, calves, neck, and thighs where he had been strapped to the table.

The man was an artist. He made sure his canvas was still.

Will still seemed permanently frozen, a fixed point unable to experience time. His chest barely moved with his shallow breath, giving him an ethereal appearance.

Hannibal resigned himself to wait. He was a patient monster, after all.

0O0

"Look at him," Hobbs hissed from the opposite side of the bed. Will kept himself still. "Look at Doctor Lecter. You've known it all along, haven't you? Old Will knew it from the beginning. He was too weak to see it though. Not like you. See."

 _He's just like me._

"He survives on the blood of others. Just like me. Just like _you._ " Will could feel the foreign blood travel down through the tubes and pulse through his veins.

 _Drip Drip Drip._

 _Murderer. Murderer. Murderer._

He had always had a knack for seeing death. Hannibal's kills clicked neatly into place among the others he had witnessed, as if he had always known and accepted the therapist's true visage.

 _Chesapeake Ripper._

He had eaten some of that meat. Hannibal had lied to him. Used him.

He was too far gone to care.

iii.

"Paper or plastic?"

It was just a little thing, really. Just a tiny, miniscule thing that made him realize what he had become.

"Ah, paper."

Will's smile was bland, flaking at the edges. It was shocking that he was let out of the hospital without any questions as to his psychological health. He suspected Hannibal had something to do with that. Alana wouldn't be pleased.

The grocery store clerk, no more than twenty five years old and already tired of working for a living, hurriedly placed the dog food in one bag, and the vegetables in another.

"Shit!"

The clerk withdrew his hand hastily from the thick paper bag, a small bead of blood welling on his finger. He hurriedly rubbed the bleeding digit onto his vest, obliterating the evidence that he had ever been wounded.

"Sorry," the man said, flushing red. He shoved the bags into the slightly transfixed brunette's arms. "Have a nice day sir."

"Back at you," Will replied mechanically, backing away. He was unsettled at the effect the small paper cut had on him, how his insides clenched when the man wiped the blood away, hiding it.

Blood was truth. Blood told no lies.

He climbed into his truck, and Hobbs, suddenly flickering into existence, got in the passenger side.

"Looks like you've found your motivation." He gazed at Will fondly when the man didn't even flinch. He was a resilient man, a survivor.

"Oh?" Will answered noncommittally, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

"What makes you kill." Will risked taking his eyes off the road for a split second to look at his companion.

"Okay," he said with more interest, turning back towards the black top.

"Well, you know for me it was girls that looked like Abby."

"Abigail," Will corrected automatically.

"She's my little girl, not yours," Hobbs retorted heatedly, suddenly tense in his seat, "I'll call her whatever the fuck I want."

"She stopped being a little girl after she ate your first victim," Will growled, beginning to feel anger build in his chest to match Hobbs'.

"I know what you're doing," the dead man said lowly, teeth grinding in barely suppressed animosity. "You're embodying me. You are thinking like you're her father."

"Maybe." Will was white knuckling the steering wheel. He never liked to talk about his empathy, or Abigail. "I don't see how it's your business, seeing as you're dead and all. And it's not like you would have won 'Father of the Year' anyways."

If Hobbs were still able, Will knew he would be dead. But he wasn't able, he existed only in Will's twisted imagination.

"Fine," Hobbs sniffed, still aggravated. "But this isn't over. You can't run from the truth. Abigail is just like you. Just like me. And just like Hannibal."

"Quit it," Will snapped, taking a sharp left turn that made his truck squeal in protest. The apparition's mouth curled into a bitter smile. He knew he hit a nerve.

"She may not have been completely willing, but she helped me kill all those girls. Blood coats her hands. You'd be a fool not to see it."

"Well, it looks like we're all just one big murder family then." Will snarked, steadily pushing on the accelerator, irritation cloying his senses.

In the wake of their tense conversation, Will retreated into his own thoughts. He was going to have to level the playing field between him and Hannibal. He had spent far too much time being danced about by the man, shrinking into his all encompassing shadow.

"My motivator is blood." Will said, breaking the thick silence in the truck. "Concealing blood... hiding oneself."

It made sense. Will had been laid bare, hollowed out and filled by pain. He had no way to hide, no way to avoid seeing himself in the glistening surface of his own blood.

"Well, what do you plan on doing about it, Will?" The specter disappeared, but Will could see Hobbs smiling as if he was still sitting beside him.

0O0

"Get your ass down here."

The sun glittered brightly off the wet pavement as Will exited his truck. Jack had called him about fifteen minutes prior, pleading for his help, well, demanding his help in the latest crime scene. He promised it would be worth his while.

Will knew it would be.

It was his first case since he had been abducted. He suspected Alana had something to do with that. She had always maintained that he was fragile, deserving of a gentle hand. Her presence had always been like the soft caress of fresh air for him. She looked at him like he was normal, like he was worth something.

All of these romantic inclinations had died with the Old Will. He felt nothing now but the solid reassurance of work related human connection, and a tentative, banal friendship.

If only she could see him now.

The body lay where the wilderness of the woods met the the civilization of the road, half on the pavement, half on the grass. Just like him; half in the wilderness of his own soul, half in the bland society of a normal life. Will studied it from a distance, mouth in a predictable downward slope. Eyes tight, he rubbed at a fake headache that wasn't building in his temples. Play his role.

"It's almost a little alarming how good you are at acting," Hobbs joked from behind him, calling from the passenger seat of his truck. He had told the man to stay there. He didn't need any added distraction. It didn't stop him from subtly turning and glaring at him though. The long dead murderer laughed. When he turned back, Jack was stalking towards him, looking habitually impatient.

"A little close to home, huh?" Jack called as he approached.

Of course it was. Will didn't want to have to drive covered in blood for longer than he had to. He supposed that fifteen minutes was long enough.

"Yeah," Will said tiredly, pointedly not voicing his incriminating thoughts. Jack slung his arm around Will's shoulder and steering him towards the body. To Will's delight, Hannibal was already there, looking at it with a thoughtful expression.

"Doctor Lecter," Will greeted dryly. Hannibal reluctantly looked away from the bloody corpse.

"Good morning Will," the Ripper answered cordially. "I trust you've had a pleasant break?"

"It was appreciated," he agreed carefully. Hannibal looked at him critically.

"It's been a while since our last session. Would you be opposed to having one tonight? I imagine we have a lot to talk about."

Hannibal was trying to lure Will into his den, to dissect him. Maybe even kill him and remake him to his own liking.

 _It may have worked if I wasn't already dead,_ Will thought to himself smugly.

"If it's not too much of an imposition," Will said instead. Hannibal's mouth quirked up.

"You are always welcome in my house," the therapist said graciously.

"Is that a promise?" Will grinned, showing a few too many teeth, knowing the other predator would take notice. Hannibal narrowed his eyes, smile becoming more sharp. Before he had a chance to answer, Jack cut in.

"Will. I need you over here," the man barked.

Annoyance flashed on Hannibal's features briefly, twisting them, but it was quickly covered by indifference.

In a moment, Will was standing beside his employer, staring at his handiwork. He had done a number on the man, the clerk from earlier, showing all the blood the man had previously tried to hide from him.

"Clear the area!" Jack shouted, backing away, stranding Will on an isolated island with the only occupants being the corpse and its creator. He was acutely aware Hannibal was watching him from a distance, jarred slightly by their earlier conversation. He closed his eyes to his surroundings, simultaneously opening them to the closed off world of the past.

The pendulum swung once, twice, and then a third time.

He had waited for the man outside of the grocery store. Will expected the first kill to be tough for him, but as he crouched by the man's car and waited for the expected reservations, he was shocked to find that he had none. He wanted this, needed it. Badly.

The young clerk approached the car, the setting sun setting the sky on fire and deepening the shadow that Will waited in. When the man got to the car door and took out his keys, Will stepped out of the blanketing darkness and struck his temple. From there, it was easy to lift the unconscious man into his own car, take his keys, and head for a remote area. After he was finished, he would take the car and park it near a known chop shop in the area. No one would ever see the vehicle again.

The man awoke shortly after, and there was a brief struggle. Will ended up having to pin the man down by driving knives through his wrists and into soft ground. The resulting scream wasn't entirely pleasant, but the blood welling up… that had been sublime. The pale skin of the younger prey rapidly was drown in a sea of warm, glistening red. The pervading smell of pot that clung to his clothes was quickly overtaken by the cloying scent of copper.

Will felt alive, his own blood sang in his veins in solidarity. The man was laid bare before him, just as he had been. He had ceased to move, but Will continued to kneel on his thighs, basking in the burning passion that filled the emptiness. He felt as though he was on fire, his very cells were burning, his essence disintegrating under the overwhelming heat. Everything around him was whited out, he only had eyes for the red that flowed from his victim's wrists. He carefully climbed off the man and headed towards the car, opening the truck and gazing on his cooler with reverence. He knew he would be burned alive if he didn't have a chance to quell the flames.

He placed his hand on his sternum, where the symbol for fire was carved into his being. He wouldn't let it dictate his motivations, his life. He hoisted the cooler out of the truck and lugged it towards his quarry. The man was hardly breathing, having lost a large amount of blood through his wrists. He certainly wasn't conscious any longer. It was for the best, Will mused as he yanked one of the knives from his wrists. He was very careful as he peeled back the skin and flesh covering the rib cage, almost surgical in his movements. He knew this is how Hannibal did it, all precise and methodical, drawing out the kill. This was partially in homage to him, the man who wanted him fractured so very badly. Well, he got what he wanted, Will thought with a vicious jerk of his arm, fracturing bone. He was all broken and sharp edges, burning and cutting and chafing everything and everyone who got too close. Will idly wondered that if Hannibal knew the truth, would he still be so eager to lure him in?

The man was long dead, but Will continued his ministrations. The stilled heart was exposed to him, open to receive whatever Will wished to give it. The empath cut into it, making a neat incision. His work was nearly done. He turned back towards the cooler, licking his chapped lips. They tasted like blood.

A waft of steam greeting him as he opened the cooler. His hands felt blissfully cold as he picked up his prize, even through the thick gardening gloves he had put on to protect himself. Dry ice. The only solution Will could think of to quench the wildfire that was steadily burning out of control. When the ice met its mark, nestled in the cut in the heart, the muscle instantly reacted to the -75 degree cold. Will felt at peace amongst the crackling of rapidly freezing gore.

"This is my design," he whispered to himself. His mouth slid into a smile smoothly. "This is who I am."

When he opened his eyes, the world was three shades lighter and the wind smelled of spilled blood. Hannibal was still looking at him with a strange contemplative look, his mouth in a thin line. Jack moved back into Will's space when he assumed the process was over.

"Well?" he said, raising his eyebrows. His foot tapped to the beat of his pervasive impatience, his constant need for movement.

"This is the work of a jilted lover," Will lied smoothly, pointedly not looking in Jack's eyes in order to project discomfort. The agent ate it up.

"What else?"

"This man didn't personally offend the broken hearted killer, but he reminded the murderer of a badly ended romantic overture in some way. Maybe a tick, an expression, it could be anything."

"So we're looking for a homicidal woman," Jack said flatly.

"Man," Will corrected confidently. "This has… a man's rage," he swallowed thickly, remembering his own passion as he was cutting the clerk up. "He's gotten a taste for it, you can expect more of it later. He feels like the world has wronged him, and while he would never kill his lover, he loves and hates him too much, he has no qualms about killing any other unfortunate that triggers his ire," he ended his web of lies grimly. Jack looks less than pleased.

"What about the clothes," he gestured at how the body was missing them. Will had taken them, knowing it would be the best way to find any spare traces of his DNA. He didn't want to be caught, after all. "Is it sexual assault?" The implication was bitter in Will's mouth. He would never.

"No," he supplied quickly. "It's about humiliation." Jack gave him a once over. Apparently what he found was satisfactory, and he diverted his stifling attention elsewhere.

"We've got to catch this sicko before he gives us another scene." He turned his back on Will, who was no longer his immediate concern. Will nervously adjusted his glasses, letting the sun shine through them at different angles.

Play the role.

Hannibal glided up behind him, touching his shoulder lightly.

"My house, tonight at seven thirty." He was smooth in his entrapment, but Will was now light years beyond such petty manipulation. He would be at Hannibal's house only because he wished to be.

"Thank you," he breathed anyway. Hannibal nodded before leisurely following Jack Crawford away from the scene. As forensics descended, Will reluctantly followed.

iv.

Hannibal watched with cautious interest as the profiler took his place, alone and isolated at the scene of the crime. He was twitching with nervous energy, which was normal, but the origin of the nerves seemed foreign in nature. A gentle gust of wind blew past the man, ruffling his hair slightly and blowing his scent over to where Hannibal was standing. Sweat, sandalwood, bad cologne and something utterly _Will._ But, there was something else there, something new and different, subtle, integrated, welcome. A faint fevered sweetness not brought on by any sickness, but instead originating from the empath, purely from the depths of his being. Singed matter with a touch of blood.

The man stood, king of a desolate kingdom, palms sweating, eyes screwed shut, reliving someone else's nightmare. It was magnificent, Hannibal noted as Will's spine stiffened, how keenly the man could entrench himself within others. He wished to covet Will's gift for himself, to be able to envelop himself in his burning mind, so close to the edge of insanity but not quite buckling, never dipping more than a toe into the churning chasm of darkness.

The kill had been artfully executed. Ice in the heart, carefully incapacitated with blades through the wrists. Methodical, neat, and yet full of dark passion. He could almost see his own work reflected in this murder, so similar and yet so different. He hoped to meet this killer, someday, if circumstances allowed.

Hannibal frowned as Will gave his diagnosis. This was not the work of a jilted lover, violent in heartbreak and harboring a vendetta against the world. It was painfully obvious that this was the work of someone who entranced by the kill, who courted death. What could cause Will's vision to be obscured so thoroughly? Or better yet, why was he lying?

He wasn't sure what Will was getting up to, but he was looking forward to their session tonight, where maybe he could shed some light on his odd behavior.

0O0

Will's nerves sang at being so close to someone so like him, and yet so unlike him. They were like two poles of a magnet, always wanting to push apart, and yet somehow, inexplicably, belonging together. His hands shook, rattling the tea cup against the saucer Hannibal had given him in a vain attempt to settle him. He hadn't taken a sip yet. He hadn't even spoken.

"Will," Hannibal's soft, yet authoritative voice struck a chord within him, and Will shuddered. If Hannibal had noticed anything, he gave away nothing.

 _He wants to tame me._ Will thought wildly, nearly spilling the scalding tea onto his lap. _He could do it too, just with his voice._

The question remained, should he let him?

"Drink your tea. We have a lot to talk about." Will's seat was inappropriately close to Hannibal's, far surpassing curt professionalism. Despite his earlier bravado, he now felt cornered, nowhere near the same level as the seasoned killer. He was just a child compared to him. Hannibal's gaze bore through him, igniting his already scorched being. He couldn't stand the heat.

"Relax," Hobbs' voice came from his left. Will didn't dare look, lest he give anything away. "You hold the cards, not him. Show him you're not afraid," the ghost's voice was a sibilant hiss next to Will's ear. "The tea. He has drugged it with a sedative. Drink it anyways."

Desperate for the upper hand, Will engaged in Hobbs' course of action. Clearing his mind of any lingering doubts, Will looked slowly into his adversary's eyes, holding contact as he brought the drugged tea towards his mouth and drank it.

 _I know what you did,_ he conveyed to Hannibal, knowing the man would understand. _I know what you did, and I don't care._

The therapist's brow furrowed, eyes flickering between the drugged tea and Will's steady gaze.

Point taken.

There was an thick tenseness to the air that was choking, which only dissipated when Hannibal finally spoke.

"How are you feeling," Hannibal opened diplomatically, making the first move.

"Much better," Will answered crisply, smile cold. "The doctors told me I had a severe case of encephalitis. It's very fortunate they caught it in time before my brain turned to soup."

"Oh, very nice!" Hobbs crowed next to him, clapping. "Going right for the jugular, well done!"

"Very fortunate indeed," Hannibal acquiesced mildly, tilting his head. Every move was calculated, and Will was struck again at how far out of his league he was. Hannibal moved as an artist, every stroke measured and careful. Will was feral, snapping and hissing and easily put down. The only thing he had over Hannibal at the moment was the man's ignorance. It was a card he would have to play carefully in order to stay alive. "But we should turn our attention to more pressing events."

"My kidnapping." Will's voice was raw, uncertain.

"Yes." Hannibal agreed, leaning forward slightly. Will's confused body battled itself, wanting to lean closer to Hannibal, to share his passion, and desperate to draw away at the same time. The consultant clenched down on the urges harshly, forcing himself to stay still. "Take your time," the doctor intoned, expression as smooth as glass.

Will shifted tensely, working out how much he should say to Hannibal. He used the tea to his advantage, sipping it carefully and allowing it to dull his strung out nerves.

"I feel strange," Will said finally, leaning forward in his chair, hands steepled and resting on his lap. He carefully kept the emotion out of his voice, ever clinical in his interactions with the man who had manipulated him for so long. "I feel like I have to act like I know what it is, what I mean is, that I feel I have to pretend-"

Hannibal's eyes were keen, taking in Will's unconscious shift in posture. The consultant's pose mirrored Hannibal's, mind working overtime and retreating in on itself, allowing the body to reset to a default reflective state. He shifted his hand experimentally and found Will doing so also. His smile barely touched the corners of his mouth. Dear Will. Even without the encephalitis' imposing presence, Hannibal still found Will just as lost among his own twisted mental processes.

"To know what it is to be alive," Hannibal replied softly, banishing the lingering smile under a mask of professionalism.

"Yes," Will agreed. He leaned back in his chair, quiet for the remainder of his session with Hannibal. Even Garrett Jacob Hobbs did not dare to speak. The only sounds that permeated the silence was the forlorn clink of china, betraying Will's trembling.

v.

Will's second victim was a woman who recently sutured her own wounds within her home using dental floss and bourbon. She didn't have any insurance, which is why she reasoned that it would be better this way, just sewing the accidental wound up herself. It wasn't as hard as she thought it was going to be, just like hemming a dress really, except this hurt a little more and the blood made it a little difficult to see what she was doing at some points. She was careful, so careful, sterilizing the cut, the needle, everything. She took three aspirin when she finished in some aborted celebratory gesture, along with a long swig of the bourbon that had been so useful for cleaning the wound.

Fire sang in his veins as he cut vertically up from her trachea to her larynx, precise in his vision, ever the eager novice. The muscles and skin yielded easily to his enthusiasm, blood spilled across his gloved hands. She was dead long before he placed the dry ice into the incision and sewed it back up.

He told Jack that it was likely the voice that had set the killer off.

Hannibal's mouth sank into a thoughtful frown, as did Jack's. The mirrored expressions had entirely different origins.

"Doesn't the ice mean something?" Jack asked skeptically, gesturing to the damaged throat tissue. "He's used it twice now. It's a pattern."

"Sometimes killers take a trophy," he said. He shrugged and glanced over at Hannibal, only to find that the man was staring at him. "Sometimes they leave something behind. It's probably a signature."

"Probably isn't good enough!" Jack barked, beginning to stalk away. He had gleaned all he could from Will at the moment. The consultant was no use to him anymore.

Will sighed, rubbing his face as he watched his boss shove his hands in his pockets, stride purposeful in his burgeoning aggravation. As Jack put more distance between them, Hannibal took the opportunity to close the gap.

"What do you see in this killer, Will?" he murmured, disguising his curiosity with helpfulness.

 _See. See._

"Anger," he lied.

 _See._

"Open your eyes," Hannibal commanded firmly. "It is not anger you see here. What is it?"

Will didn't want to say it. His emotions were his alone, not for sharing. His motivations were sacred.

"Will." He was firm, absolute.

"Passion," Will choked out, caving. "He loves it. It's not about the person, it's about the act, the intrinsic beauty of the dispatch."

Memories of his two kills, the passion and heat around them, filled him as Hannibal moved ever closer. He was trembling helplessly, a slave to the blistering heat that ravaged his person. His scars burned on his chest, screaming at him.

"Will... Will?" Hannibal's hand was on his shoulder, and Will could see through hazy vision a vague look of concern on his therapist's face.

"Too much," Will groaned. His whole body dipped forward, only Hannibal's firm hand kept him from hitting the ground.

"Agent Crawford!" Hannibal called over his shoulder. His voice was calm, even at its raised decibel. Hannibal had Will's slack body in a cautious embrace, Will's head was on his shoulder, and Hannibal's arms were tucked under the weak man's arm pits with his hands grasped firmly at his back. "Don't worry Will. I've got you."

It was strangely intimate to be so close to someone who had killed so many, and yet so carefully held him as if he would break if he fell. Hannibal's breathing was deep, controlled, and Will found himself matching it breath for breath.

"I can see everything," he whimpered into Hannibal's shirt, and the man merely hummed in acknowledgment. In truth, Will could see his own motives clearly, his burning need for reassurance that he was still alive, that the world around him was more than the bland opaques it projected. Hobbs leered behind Hannibal, so close he could feel his imagined breath in his hair.

"What's wrong with him?" Jack asked, worry lining his tired face. "What's happening?"

"Will is merely tired," Hannibal cut in smoothly. He shifted Will's weight slightly, and Will fought the urge to stay within the man's arms for a bit longer. Neither man said anything about Will's change in prognosis about the killer.

"'M fine," Will muttered, reluctantly pulling away from the doctor. Hannibal's firm hold on his back tightened briefly, before letting go completely. Will, still oversensitized and burning, searched into Hannibal's face and came back with nothing.

"Alright," Jack sighed. "It's time for you to head home."

He didn't bother to answer verbally. He just nodded. As Jack led him away from the body, Will snuck a look back at Hannibal. The man was looking down at his work, a thoughtful expression in place.

0O0

"Oh, that was rich," Hobbs sneered.

"Not now." Will was tired, exhausted really, and ready to just crawl into bed.

"You kill _two people_ and you have a breakdown?"

"It wasn't a breakdown," Will muttered sullenly. "It was sensory overload. I felt like I was having a seizure." He pulled off his shirt, exposing the scars that acted like tenuous stitches holding together his battered self.

"It's Hannibal, isn't it."

"Of course it's Hannibal!" he snapped irritably. "I can't fucking breathe around him. It's like every time he does anything, I feel like I'm burning alive!" He placed his hand on his sternum, half expecting to feel the symbol carved there to burn him. But the skin was cool, exactly as the flesh should feel. "I've got to do something."

"Sounds like you've got the hots for the therapist," Hobbs smirked. "It's like a bad porno." Unlike Will, who was standing tense at his bed, the specter was at ease, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs. Irritation fluttered in his chest.

"It isn't like that," he spoke quietly, not looking at the decomposing man. His cracked, self deprecating smile tugged tersely on his face. "I hate him. He pulled me every which way when I was sick, he used me. But every time we're in the same room, my scars burn, and the burning pushes through my veins and into my head and I feel like I'm on fire. I keep thinking he knows that Old Will is dead and that _I_ know that he's the Ripper, and I'm scared that he's going to end it. But I don't want it to end, now when everything's just begun."

Hobbs' milky eyes bored holes into the back of his head.

"Don't play his game then. Make your own."

"I had to be tortured in order to find out who I am. If Hannibal is going to see me, I mean really _see_ me, he'll have to earn it."

Hobbs smirked.

"Make him earn it then."

vi.

Will refused to look at Hannibal. It was too dangerous, too soon at this point. He gazed out of the older man's tastefully curtained window, languishing in the steady shift from dusk into night.

"What happened at the crime scene Will?"

Will waited a moment, allowing the question to dissipate into silence before breaking it.

"I could see myself as the killer. I saw myself, felt myself killing those people, clearer than ever before. And it burned."

0O0

In therapy sessions, Will was a brick wall. He let no cracks show, sealing off any holes that had formed while he was sick. What remained for Hannibal's viewing pleasure was a shadow of what he truly was, how he truly felt. He only saw what Will allowed him to see.

Only through his kills did he allow the therapist to see who he truly was, to get a full picture of the blistering need that he experienced, the desperation for fulfillment and redemption after so long in the dark. Hannibal got full view of everything Will felt.

He just didn't know he was seeing. Hannibal saw a faceless killer, someone intriguing in his design, but did not yet make the connection between the lost empath and the ruthless murderer.

He left an impressive trail of bodies. The count was growing, rapidly, he was pushing up his kill rate to astronomical levels. Within three months he had killed five more people. The FBI was reluctant to attribute all of the victims to one killer, but Will could tell that Hannibal knew they were all from the same source.

"He's seeking connection," Will said carefully one night to Hannibal. He was making his first move since he had begun his campaign to drag Hannibal into his world. The man looked mutedly intrigued, and Will knew he had his attention.

"Are you referring to our newest killer?" Hannibal asked, shifting his attention, at least partially, to the meal he was cooking. Will didn't feel insulted, it was just Hannibal's way of giving him space.

"The man who sews his victims up with ice."

"The killer whom you are hiding from the FBI," Hannibal clarified. There was no accusation in his voice, but Will gave himself a moment to project shame. He had to keep up appearances after all.

"Only until I figure out what he's thinking. It's easier to tell Jack what he wants to hear until I can get a good read on our perp."

"What about this man fogs your vision so much? Is it his anger? His mixed demographic? His fluctuating motive?" Hannibal deftly flipped the meat in the pan, which sizzled appealingly. It smelled amazing. Will wondered what the person did to offend the sophisticated serial killer. Did their transgressions spoil the meat? Did a rude person taste different than a polite person?

"It's heat," Will revealed, still transfixed by Hannibal's mastery in the kitchen. "I get a burning feeling whenever I try to move too close to him." He waited with bated breath, watching the minute tells that passed through Hannibal's normally airtight self control. Just a slight tensing in his shoulders told Will that Hannibal remembered and connected the comment to their earlier session.

"Are you sure it's the killer that's giving off these feelings? Not yourself?"

Will had to hide his smile as Hannibal turned away from his cooking to make eye contact with his patient. Very good, Doctor Lecter. Very astute.

"What?" Will forced out, a blush creeping to his cheeks. He looked away from Hannibal's searching gaze, only to meet the amused Hobbs that was standing in the corner.

"Finally," the apparition said, rolling his eyes. "You take forever to do anything."

 _I'm just being careful._ Will thought stubbornly, and Hobbs huffed a laugh.

"Are you sure it has nothing to do with your kidnapping?" Will tore his stare away from Hobbs to look back at Hannibal, who was no longer trying to force eye contact. His eye level was pointedly lower, towards his chest region. The familiar burning flared with Hannibal's scrutiny.

Resisting the urge to cover his chest, Will shot up from his previously comfortable slouch and stumbled away from the kitchen towards the door.

"I'm sorry Doctor Lecter," Will mumbled. "I just remembered, I have a previous engagement with… Alana." He grabbed his coat and left the house without waiting for Hannibal's response. The man's disapproval followed him out like a dark cloud.

He was pleased with the progress. But he wasn't ready to finish the game just yet.

0O0

"I _need_ to connect to him." Will said with gritted teeth.

"That's funny," Hobbs said, snide tone becoming irritatingly familiar. "A few months ago you said you hated him." Will looked like he was about to protest, but the specter didn't allow it. "Don't screw up and get us killed."

"Us killed? You're already dead." Will sneered.

"Don't be pedestrian," Hobbs was recomposing, his wounds knitting together. In a moment, he looked as though Will hadn't killed him all that time ago. "I can be just as alive as you when I want to be." His eyes were clear, boring into the side of Will's head. The murderer kept his gaze stubbornly on the road.

"It doesn't matter how alive you look, you're just a part of me. You can't survive alone."

"I'm like a virus," the man reasoned, going along with Will's bluntness. He gripped his chin thoughtfully, rubbing it. "Viruses aren't technically alive. They survive only through their hosts. It's looks like you've got yourself a viral infection, Mr. Graham."

"Stop being moronic. We've got bigger problems to deal with… like how to escalate with Hannibal without _dying_ for one, and also how to keep the FBI off my ass."

"Viral infections are awfully hard to get rid of," the apparition continued, ignoring Will. "Antibiotics don't work on them. Maybe the burning is a symptom of a greater disease, like a fever."

"Look, does it really matter? We both know why I'm always burning, and I have it under control."

"All jokes aside, I don't think you have it under control." As if reacting to Hobbs' words, Will's old wounds began to flare with agonizing heat. "It's getting worse."

"Yeah, it's getting worse," Will hissed, accelerating slightly above the speed limit. "But it's fine. I'm _fine._ "

"You need to kill again. It's been too long."

"Yeah, I realize that, thank you," Will sniped, breathing picking up. "I'm hoping that once I have Hannibal, I can stabilize somewhat."

"How do you know he won't just kill you?"

"I know him," Will stated. "I can see him, clearly. He's reaching for me as much as I'm reaching for him."

"Oh, that doesn't sound stupid at _all_." Hobbs was frowning, slouching into his seat. "I don't understand what it is with this guy. He's just another serial killer."

"I don't really understand it either," Will admitted. "I just feel it. And that's good enough for me."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's what violin guy thought too."

"Tobias?" Will thought back to the case of the psychotic man who made strings out of human guts. He took a moment to reconstruct, and pieced things together carefully, more carefully than he had last time. "He sought Hannibal out. He wanted to connect too."

"Hannibal killed him," Hobbs said bluntly, scowling. "What makes you think you're different?"

"Tobias was overconfident, bordering on narcissistic," Will reasoned, going over his renewed picture of the events with a fine tooth comb. "He was rude, and therefore unworthy. I, on the other hand, have something he wants."

"Your empathy?"

"A kindred soul."

vii.

Will checked his phone. Four messages, three of which from Jack. Pressure was on to catch the 'Ice Guy' as the irritable agent called the mystery killer. Despite the rawness from the kidnapping, Jack was beginning to get impatient with Will skirting around the crime scenes.

Jack and Will danced a complicated waltz around this case. They fought for lead, careful not to tread on each other's toes but both aggressive in their steps. Jack dragged Will again and again to crime scenes, relentlessly, hard hitting in his desperation for new leads. Leads Will was very careful not to give him.

The fourth call was from Alana, who cautiously expressed her desire for him to return to his teaching post. Will had yet to return the call, unsure in his changed relationship with her. Old Will had loved her, desired her strongly. These feelings were gone, leaving Will unsure how to interact with her in their absence. Avoidance was a coward's way out, but nobody ever said that Will Graham was brave.

He also found himself unsure in another important relationship. Hannibal. He was ready to progress in his courtship. He purchased a burn phone, secure in its anonymity. He was, however, reluctant to push onwards into a stage that would make himself vulnerable. Despite his desire to have Hannibal know him, understand him, he still couldn't help but resent him somewhat. Will leaned towards Hannibal's suffocating aura like a moth to flame, however, whatever little part of Old Will that remained still abhorred the man for what he had put him through.

Fortunately, the little fragment of Old Will that remained was easily beaten down by the overbearing presence of Hobbs, and cauterized by the ever present heat flowing through his veins. Only rarely did Old Will influence his decisions, and usually it was concerning his relationship with his murderous therapist. Figures.

But now was no time for internal arguments. The rest of the world would not wait for Will to make his move. The longer he took, the more likely he would be caught, or the gesture would not have the intended effect. He had Hannibal's attention, but his antics would not hold the man's interests for long. He had to strike, or risk burning to death in his own isolation, alone but for a twisted figment of a man he killed.

Caution caved to his need as he drove into the night, searching for a very specific victim. The grassy borders about the road glittered wetly under the jaundiced sheen of intermittent street lights. He was about to break his pattern, just briefly, to call out to Hannibal. A siren song he hoped the man would not ignore.

0O0

Hannibal's Bentley glinted darkly in the yellow street light as he drove towards the address shining bleakly from his cell phone screen. The steering wheel creaked under his bruising grip, knuckles white from the continued abuse.

Someone knew what he was.

He wasn't overly upset over this recent development, more annoyed by the impromptu drive than afraid of his newfound adversary. In the worst case scenario, he would dispatch the nuisance and eat well the next day, perhaps invite Will over for dinner and leave the body for the FBI to panic over. But more than likely, this man who dared contact him was no threat. If he knew as much as he claimed to, he would have gone to the authorities. His secret was safe with the dead.

 _Ripper- Don't be alarmed. I just want to talk._

Then, below the short missive, the address. No signature or endearments at the end. Short, businesslike, to the point. It had all the set up of a blackmail situation, but none of the feel of one.

Unable to glean more from the barren text, Hannibal decided to scope out the situation for himself. So, all in all, he was feeling rather blasé about the whole situation so far as he pulled into the darkened parking lot the text led him to.

An old factory loomed over the broken down parking lot, long since decimated by the floundering economy and now only home to vagrants and unsavory drug addicts. The lot itself was scarcely lit, only one out of the six street lights in the vicinity was still illuminated, and even that flickered intermittently and with little gusto. Creeping tendrils of crab grass spewed out of cracks in the asphalt, and the lingering scent of rotting leaves and grime assaulted the psychiatrist's senses as he opened his car door.

Other than the slight rustling of nearby trees in the breeze, the night was silent. The relative peace mocked him in its normality.

Hannibal's lips curled downwards slightly at the prospect of being stood up; the utter rudeness of the situation was like a rising tide that roared in his ears. He turned crisply on his heel and stalked back to his car, fully intent on tracking down this miscreant and making him or her pay for his wasted time in blood-

Until. The crisp fall breeze caught the scent of- not rotting vegetation, but the sweet smell of decomposition of an hours old corpse. Hannibal's impatient gait slowed as he turned towards the source of the familiar smell. Not twenty feet away, illuminated ever so slightly by the fringes of the one working street light, was a body.

He changed course, drifting slowly but with purpose towards the ghastly scene. Even from his limited perspective, he could tell that the corpse was relatively fresh. The familiarity of the scene astonished him for but a moment.

The body was a brunette male, of slight build with pointed, crude features. And, more noticeably, it was cut in half, the torso completely separated from the lower half of the body. His mind raced with the implications, his earlier bloodlust long forgotten and replaced with puzzlement. It was the spitting image of one of his very own murders from not even a year ago. He had left the two halves for the FBI to find, taking only what he needed for his extravagant dinner party. The only difference was that the eyes had been removed and replaced with-

The purpose of the summoning grew clearer in the killer's mind as he observed the chunks of ice left in the space where the man's eyes once resided. Ice. The killer was reaching out to him.

This wasn't the first aspiring murderer to figure him out. Memories of Tobias calling him out with ostentatious murders and the irritating patient Franklyn flickered through his thoughts.

But this contact was something else altogether. It was less of a boastful killer looking to brag about their accomplishments and more of a plea for a similar soul, for some sort of shared understanding. Hannibal sensed that there was more to this game than met the eye- almost as though the corpse was left as a challenge, to see if he was worthy to know who and what the killer was.

He could easily reciprocate. He was more than worthy.

Moving on from the mutilated body, the psychiatrist noticed a small cooler set off to the side. Inside, there was a liver and two kidneys, and against his better judgement, he found himself reluctantly impressed.

 _My Move._

0O0

Will found the irony of Hannibal feeding him the liver and kidneys he left for him as delicious as the meal itself.

As he sat at the table, eagerly digging into the meat and ignoring his therapist's gleaming eyes, he idly thought that Hannibal had really outdone himself this time. The meat was perfectly cooked, and it was seasoned just right.

viii.

"Will, there's been another one. The Ice Killer struck again."

Except he hadn't. Will snapped his phone shut with a blank expression, icy anticipation running through his veins. Had Hannibal finally made his move in their little dance?

"Well you're not going to find out by just standing there!" Hobbs barked, snapping his fingers in front of Will's slack face.

"Alright, alright. Just let me get dressed," he grumbled, shoving the specter out of his personal space. His hands tingled where he made contact with Hobbs.

"I'll be in the truck," the ghost shouted over his shoulder, leaving Will blissfully alone.

Alone but for the steadily growing burn of his scars. He was running out of time.

0O0

The ride to the scene was spent in near silence. Will was twitchy, wounds alternating between itching and burning. He almost crashed his truck when he didn't realize a traffic light had turned red.

"Watch it," Hobbs snorted, sounding for the most part unconcerned. He was already dead, after all. Will just sighed and payed closer attention to what he was doing.

When he finally stopped the truck, he was practically vibrating out of his skin. As he stepped out of the oppressive atmosphere of the vehicle, he felt his stomach violently rebel against his nerves. He had to step aside to empty his stomach into the grass. It was mostly bile. After spitting a couple times to rid his mouth of the taste, he straightened and made his way towards the house. He knew whatever lie in wait there would define the rest of this endless give and take between him and his therapist.

The stage was set. Jack was waiting at the door, his tapping foot like a death knell to Will's shredded composure. As his superior looked up to acknowledge his arrival, he could read slight apprehension on his hardened face. Will knew he must look like death warmed over, but it wasn't that much of a change from how he usually looked.

"You alright?" the man muttered lowly, turning as Will made to pass him. The hand he placed on Will's shoulder felt like lead.

"As alright as I'll ever be," he retorted, not as snidely as he would have liked. It came out tired, dragging alongside the exhausted man who uttered them.

"If you say so. But this one's bad. Really bad. We had one of the first officers on site acquaint his breakfast with the ground."

Will got butterflies in his stomach just hearing about it.

"Is Doctor Lecter there?" Jack shot him a searching look.

"Yeah. He arrived just a few minutes ago. Why, do you think you need him to be there?"

"Just wondering." Will increased his pace and left Jack to scowl at his behavior.

The acrid scent of spilt blood is what assaulted his senses first, before he could even see the body. When he finally looked up from the blood stained carpet, he felt his world tilt to the side. His breathing picked up and his heart beat a million miles per minute.

The first thing he noticed was the man. He was a strong build, short cropped brown hair and a muscular build, a brutish feel to him. The corpse mirrored the profile the FBI had been working on: an alcoholic, burly homosexual male with a history of violence. Will had no doubt that when the ID of the body came in, he would have an assault record. It was as though the murderer was mocking him, laughing at the web of lies he created about the killer.

The intestines had been cut out, and the surgical precision was all Chesapeake Ripper. But the angry passion of the kill mirrored Will's own dispatches perfectly. Dry ice had been sewn into the gut wound, and the removed intestines were twined around the man's neck like a hanging rope.

But that's not what held Will's attention. He seemed to lose time, his ears were roaring- every beat of his heat seemed to pump liquid fire through his veins. Hannibal had carved 'see' into the man's chest.

See.

 _See._

He could feel himself falling, and belatedly noticed he was on his knees. Someone was calling his name, probably Jack. He tore his gaze from the damned corpse, eyes flitting around the room furtively before landing on Hannibal.

The man was standing off to the side, staring directly at Will. Will found himself drawn to the man's eyes, losing himself there. The Ripper's face had the ghost of a smile, and he looked ready to eat Will alive. Suddenly, Will understood.

Hannibal _knew._ He had no idea for how long, but he _knew._

It was too much. He had to get out. Stumbling to his feet, he tore his gaze away from Hannibal and staggered from the room.

0O0

Will was panting raggedly as he pushed his way into the bathroom. His loud breaths echoed off the walls, revealing just how alone he was. He couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't stand by all of those people- Jack, Hannibal, the forensics team- and pretend everything was fine. That he wasn't rapidly disintegrating from the inside out.

Will turned towards the mirrors, grasping the sides of the sink with a punishing grip. He was hunched over the basin, desperately trying to regain composure.

Seeing Hannibal's handiwork in broad daylight, undoubtedly the Chesapeake Ripper's and yet so like his own… it turned the brunette's fevered brain on edge. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror and seeing a twisted version of himself, misshapen and lopsided but definitely his own visage. To see himself, so familiar and yet so foreign… he didn't think it would affect him so profoundly. But Hannibal was nothing if not meticulous, and he had very effectively reflected Will's own burning desperation, his passion. To view himself from the outside in, like a bystander, it was surreal.

He looked at himself in the mirror, saw what everyone else saw (but not Hannibal; he saw the feral baseness within him, all the broken pieces). His eyes were fever bright; the blue swallowed up by agony and barely repressed madness. There were rings under his eyes, his lips were chapped and slightly bloodied from his frantic anxiety, and hair was tussled. All in all, he looked no different than he had before his harrowing incident. Same old Will, always struggling with himself, one step away from going under, drowning in his own empathy and freakishness.

But he wasn't the same old Will.

This mirror showed nothing about him. It failed to capture his inner torture, it showed none of the fire that coursed through his veins, scorching and tormenting. It didn't show who he really was, an artist, a murderer, a mad man. It was nothing like Hannibal's mirror, so easily dragging him out of his own skin, so easily showing what he worked so hard to hide from his peers. Damn him.

Growling, the ruined man looked away from the mirror in front of him for a moment, breathing deeply and yet still feeling as though he was suffocating. Suffocating under the sheer weight of Hannibal's machinations. Angrily, Will drove his fist into the glass, shattering it in one clean blow. His knuckles were shredded, his blood dripped down the jagged surface, marring his half crazed visage.

He felt like screaming, the heat was so intense. It was agony. Surely death would be better than this.

Desperate, the consultant tore at his shirt, ripping it off his trembling body. He dug his nails into the damning scars, dragging down until beads of blood welled in the wake of his fingers. His eyes were scrunched together tightly, a small keen making its way out of his clenched teeth.

"Jesus Christ." Will's eyes snapped open, abruptly aware of how vulnerable he was. His eyes met Jack's in the mirror.

Pity. Despair. Resignation.

The man's eyes drifted down to his scarred chest, mouth opening and shutting again.

"Get out," Will whispered, voice hushed. The words carried clearly in the tense silence.

Jack looked conflicted. His eyebrows drifted together, creating a worry line. "Will-"

"I said get out!" He was shouting, voice cracking. He turned towards Jack, facing him. The corners of his mouth were pulled back into a vicious snarl; his teeth were bared and bloody from biting into his lip. Jack paled and backed out of the bathroom, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm going to get Doctor Lecter," Jack enunciated from around the corner. Clearly, this was meant to reassure him, but all he could feel was bile rising. This was it. It was the end game. He couldn't continue like this.

0O0

Time passed in a blur. He felt hands usher him into a car that smelled like expensive aftershave and leather.

Hobbs was gone. He was alone with a man who he in equal parts hated and desired to be close with. A man who was just as much monster as human.

Hannibal Lecter goaded him into his house, and he followed without protest. This was it. They entered the mansion as equals. No one was being manipulated. Everything was out in the open.

As Hannibal closed the door behind them, Will knew he wouldn't leave the mansion the same as he was now. Either he would be destroyed, or remade.

The Chesapeake Ripper faced his quarry, face blank and unyielding. Will felt his heartbeat pick up. This was end game. He was about open himself, give himself fully to the man who had tried to ruin his life.

"Will?" the man inquired, voice ever polite but posture rigid, powerful.

Will felt his scars burn again, and he felt himself fighting not to howl in agony. He was vaguely aware of his unstable state, he felt like he was viewing himself from the outside for a quick moment. His shirt was still torn, his chest had stopped bleeding but the scars were an angry red. Hannibal was staring at them, a subtle look of fierce jealousy in the corners of his eyes.

 _Mine_ they seemed to say.

"What do you want?" Hannibal asked, still eyeing the scars. His hands were resting behind his back, but they were clenched in a quiet fury.

A thousand answers seemed to pass through the broken man like a storm, all fighting for precedence. _Kill Me. Help Me. Kiss Me. Leave Me. Help me. Help me. Help me._

"Please," Will begged quietly, voice quavering. He needed everything, or nothing, or something. "Please."

Whatever Hannibal saw in Will's broken expression seemed to be enough. He stalked towards the trembling man, hands at his side. Will was muttering a litany of 'please' and it made Hannibal want to possess the broken man, to own him. He reached out, caressed Will's sweaty face.

"I've got you Will. It's okay now," he reassured, hand soothing and calming in equal measure. Will choked out a sob. The Ripper turned his attention to Will's despicable scars, marks of ownership from another man. He traced their swooping path over Will's sternum, eliciting a shudder from the tormented man.

His other hand, which had lay idle by his side since he approached his former patient, made its way up to WIll's chest, knife clasped in his solid grip. Will noticed the sharp gleam of metal and gave a stuttering sigh. He knew what Hannibal had to do. He needed it. He needed Hannibal to eradicate the fever etched into his skin.

Hannibal pressed the knife into the scars, reopening the wounds and allowing blood to bubble to the surface.

Will could feel the heat leave his body through the scars, leaving blissful coolness behind. His eyes drooped shut, relishing in the release. He felt a part of himself fragment and break apart- the part diseased and haunted by Hobbs, the part that infected him for the past months.

He looked down at Hannibal, who had finished cutting into his wounds and was studying Will's blood with a muted fascination. His fingers dragged through the blood and found its way back to Will's mouth. And Will accepted it, just as he had those many months ago. But now he was Hannibal's. He was calmness and stillness and cold-the sickness had been obliterated under the oppressive weight of Hannibal's presence and the coppery taste of his blood.

And when Hannibal's mouth met Will's for a chaste kiss, blood on his lips and Hannibal's, he felt his empathy bend and flex, taking Hannibal into himself, melding them together in a surge of heat and blood and desperation.

But as soon as the heat came, blinding and binding and intense, it left. And Will was left whole.


End file.
